Sympathy for the Icelanders Part I: Frozen Hell
by HaloFin17
Summary: What happens when Julie Gaffney and Gunnar Stahl are accidentally locked together in a cold room overnight, only to be “rescued” by Dean Portman? The possibilities are endless. Julie’s POV. Enjoy!
1. Chapter 1: Recognition

**Summary:** What happens when Julie Gaffney and Gunnar Stahl are accidentally locked together in a cold room overnight, only to be "rescued" by Dean Portman? The possibilities are endless. Julie's POV. Enjoy!

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing, and no money is made. I think that just about covers it.

**Author's Note:** Hello, Everyone! Well, I must admit this is yet another fandom that I never imagined I would be contributing to, yet here I am. I think it all started a couple of weeks ago when my sister and I decided to have a spontaneous "Duck Marathon" and watch all three movies in succession in a less than twenty-four hour time period. Fun stuff.

So that got me checking out fanfics, and unfortunately, I didn't find a whole lot that intrigued me. But, I have recently heard a quote that "action is the best form of criticism," so instead of being all bummed out about it, I have decided to take matters into my own hands and write the sort of story that I'd been hoping to find all along. I confess I'm quite pleased with how it turned out, and hopefully there some of you out there who have been waiting for a fic like this, as well. So enjoy!

**Sympathy for the Icelanders: Part I**

**Frozen Hell - Recognition**

Medical tape. Of all times for Banks to run out of medical tape, why did it have to be now –_ after_ we'd just returned to the dorms from a late-night practice. Of course, no one had any on-hand, and so, being true to my kind and generous nature, I volunteered to return to the locker room and retrieve some for him. Curse my kind and generous nature..

I had no idea it would be such an ordeal! At least I'd had time to change into some comfier clothes and get my hair up in a loose ponytail instead of a tight braid before I left. It was just past eleven o'clock now. Most of the lights were out, and when I didn't come across another living soul, I began to fear that I was the last person left in the entire stadium. Hopefully, at least a cleaning crew was still here, and I wouldn't be setting off any alarms.

I arrived at the locker room, conducted a very thorough search, and came up with absolutely nothing to show for it. Blast! Everyone else was probably in bed already, and I had really hoped to see Ms. MacKay about our latest school project before turning in for the night. Not to mention, I was bound to be out past curfew by now. Oh, boy, does Banks owe me for this! Breathing a soft curse that my dad surely would have boxed my ears over had he been there, I turned off the lights in the locker room and headed for the facility's main storage space.

I say "space," but it's really more of huge room, cram-packed with piles of anything and everything required for an ice arena of this size to function. There had to be some medical tape there! It took me a while to find the place, as I had only been there once before – immediately after the Iceland game, when there was such a high demand for aspirin that we ran out.

_Iceland._ Only a month ago, I might have thought it a nice place to visit someday. Now, the name alone was enough to simultaneously send chills down my spine and make my stomach turn in bitter anger. In all reality, _they_ were the ones who had gotten me into this mess in the first place! If that big brainless oaf Sanderson hadn't come within an inch of breaking Adam's arm, I wouldn't be here right now on Mission: Medical Tape.

They were all big brainless oafs on that Iceland team – every single one of them. Their brute strength was the only reason they kept on winning. I cannot express in words how happy we all were to read that the high and mighty Vikings had fallen to Russia yesterday. Hallelujah, we were tied with them again!

Having finally reached the storeroom, I shoved the heavy door open and stepped inside. Wow, this place was even bigger than I remembered! As the door latched shut behind me, I couldn't help thinking how strange it was that the light was already on. Perhaps maintenance had been in here earlier and simply forgotten to shut it off?

Shrugging off the oddity, I was just about to resume my charitable search when suddenly there came the sound of hurried footsteps, followed by a sharp exclamation that could have been profanity in any language but English.

Startled beyond reason, I let out a frightened cry of my own and whirled around to see just who had managed to sneak up on "The Cat." I immediately wished I hadn't, for standing there just a few feet away from me was a tall young man with the unmistakable logo of an Iceland flag on his black sports jacket.

In less than a heartbeat, my surprise had turned to fear, and fear to anger. Speak of the Viking devils.

"You!" Now, mind you, I had no idea as yet who this particular player was. They all looked the same to me – big and blonde. Oh, and did I mention brainless?

"What are you doing?" he spat, his heavy accent thickened by obvious agitation.

"What are _you_ doing?" I shot back automatically. Great, Gaffney – way to paralyze him with your scathing wit.

His predictably blue eyes smoldered. "I am trying to get out!"

"What?" Now I was really getting ticked. Who did this loser think he was? "What do you mean you're 'trying to get out'? Why don't you just open the door, genius?"

Practically shaking, the enraged Icelander drew a visibly deep breath to compose himself before slowly explaining, "Because the building is shut down now, and the door will no longer open from the inside. It must be part of the security system."

I could literally feel the blood drain from my face. Quick as the cat for which I was named, I bolted back to the door and pulled at the handle with all my might. It wouldn't budge. My own heartbeat whirring in my ears, I did the next best thing I could think of – pound on the door and yell for help at the top of my lungs.

As I proceeded to make a complete fool of myself, a small voice in the back of my mind told me that my undesired companion had probably already tried this approach, with no success. I argued back that, as a girl, I could most likely scream louder than him, and therefore, it was worth a shot.

I needn't have bothered. There was no rescue, and I was stuck. With _him_.

Feeling my hands start to tremble at the nightmarish situation in which I found myself trapped, I slowly turned around to face my cellmate. He was staring me down as he leaned against the far wall, with his arms crossed over his chest and an air of ill-concealed condescension about his features.

"What luck that _you_ were the one to find me," he sneered. "Of course a woman wouldn't remember to keep the door open."

A sharp retort rose to my lips but never made it past. Wait a minute – I may not know the face too well, but I would recognize that sexist tone of voice anywhere. _Sending a woman to do a man's job…_

"Gunnar Stahl?" There I go, stating the obvious again, but it was all I could manage to get out at the moment.

He merely nodded in confirmation, appearing far too pleased that his identity alone had caused me so much grief.

"Well, if you're so smart," I fumed, "why didn't _you_ think to prop the door open?"

"I did. Someone else closed it while I was in the back; they were probably the last ones to leave the building, too."

Oh no, please, this could not be happening! Not only was I was stuck here in this frozen hell with someone from the Iceland team, I was stuck with their star player whom I despised above all others. Well, except maybe Sanderson.

"But there's gotta be another way out!"

"There isn't. Believe me, I've looked."

I started to pace, growing increasingly restless, but he still stood there, just watching me with those cold blue eyes.

"How long have you been here?" I asked at length.

He spared a glance down at his watch. "Almost half an hour now."

My questioned answered, I kept pacing, and he kept watching. The weight of his stare eventually started to wear on me, so that as much as I hated to, I just had to pick up the conversation.

"So, what did you come here for?"

"Ice packs," he answered nonchalantly. "Our goalie's hand is still sore from stopping your teammate's shot."

For the first time since my imprisonment, I felt a small smile tug at the corner of my lips. Way to go, Fulton!

"I actually came for a teammate, too," I elaborated with feigned casualness. "Banks needed some more medical tape for the bandage on his wrist."

I'm sorry, the opportunity had been too perfect! And surprisingly, I didn't need to spell out all the details for him, either. I could tell by the look of cognizance on his face that Gunnar knew exactly who I was talking about.

His next words were spoken with great deliberation. "You would blame _me_ for something Olaf did?"

"He's still your pal, isn't he?" I argued hotly, but his ensuing hesitation caught me off guard. He looked confused, uncertain. Was it possible he didn't know what "pal" meant?

I tried again. "I mean he's your buddy, right? Your friend?"

"Yah, of course." That last word had finally sparked some recognition. "Olaf and I have played together since I was nine years old."

"Which proves my point, thank you very much." Feeling admittedly self-righteous, I fought to hold back my triumphant smile at the sight of his discomfort. "What _Olaf_ did was a violent and altogether worthless display of poor sportsmanship."

Gunnar smiled suddenly, the expression smug. "And you would know nothing of that, I'm sure."

Ouch! Okay, so maybe this oaf wasn't _completely_ brainless. He was, of course, referring to my own "display of poor sportsmanship" that resulted with Sanderson and himself both sprawled flat on their backs on the ice. Now, I do realize it hadn't been the most mature thing to do…but at the time, it had been _so_ worth it!

"Right," I countered. "Just like I'm sure your _friend_ was a perfect gentleman last night when you guys lost to Russia."

Yes! That one seemed to hurt him, as a visible grimace flitted briefly across his face.

"That was…not a good night. Our coach was furious. He worked us harder in practice today than in our first week of team training six months ago."

Did he just say six months? Team USA had only worked together for less than half that time before coming to the Jr. Goodwill Games.

"I know how you feel," I commiserated, trying not to sound _too_ empathetic. "Our coach wasn't exactly thrilled when we lost to you guys, either."

"Yah, but at least _that_ loss was expected."

His smug smile had returned, and I glared poisoned arrows back at him. All right, this one's _definitely_ not brainless! What a bummer. It just made bickering with him all the more infuriating, rather than gratifying like it should have been. This was going to be a long night.

**Author's End Note: **And there's the start. As you can probably guess, Gunnar was my favorite character in all the MD movies. Just can't help it, lol. So if you know of any good Gunnar Stahl stories, please let me know. I'd love to hear from you. Thanks, and we'll see you at the next segment!


	2. Chapter 2: Resignation

**Summary:** What happens when Julie Gaffney and Gunnar Stahl are accidentally locked together in a cold room overnight, only to be "rescued" by Dean Portman? The possibilities are endless. Julie's POV. Enjoy!

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing, and no money is made. I think that just about covers it.

**Author's Note:** Hello again! Many thanks to those who reviewed the first chapter, and also for their recommendations. I quite enjoyed it! But I will keep you here no longer and release you to relish chapter two. I hope it lives up to your expectations. Enjoy!

**Sympathy for the Icelanders: Part I**

**Frozen Hell - Resignation**

The next half-hour following our first abrasive encounter was relatively silent, a fact which I appreciated for about the first five minutes as my temper cooled. After that, however, it was not so pleasant. Let's just say that the next time I hear someone talk about "awkward silences," I'm going to tell them that they "have no idea."

I made a sort of makeshift bench by shoving several crates of similar size up against the wall so I could sit and lean back in at least some comfort. Gunnar had started meandering throughout the storeroom, doing or looking for God knows what, and he would periodically wander into my line of sight. I looked away whenever he did.

Not only did I wish to avoid eye contact with him at all costs, but I had found to my utter dismay that my accursed "feminine instincts" were choosing the worst possible time to start acting up. It was just getting hard not to notice certain things, if you get my meaning. You see, when everyone's wearing a helmet, it's difficult to tell one person from another without help from the name and number on their back.

But now, with no helmets and not much else to look at, I was becoming reluctantly aware of just how…attractive my hell-mate really was. I can assure you, it was _not_ a pleasant revelation. But still, he just had one of those faces that you _wanted_ to look at. I even found myself observing that his hair wasn't the sort of pale, bleach blonde one might expect from a Scandinavian. It was more of a dark honey color – almost brown.

_No, no, no! Don't do this. You cannot think he's cute!_ I scolded myself internally. _Remember what a conspiracy it was when Coach Bombay went out for ice cream with that Iceland trainer? Just think of how ashamed you'd be if your teammates knew what was going on in your head right now!_

And yet, there I was – noticing it more and more despite myself. This was truly _not_ a night to remember.

But as the minutes ticked by, I was struck by yet another unwelcome and unsettling revelation. It was getting colder. Or, at least I thought it was. If the temperature had dropped, it had done so gradually; I just hoped it wouldn't be a progressive trend. But after a while, I simply couldn't ignore it any longer.

"Is it just me, or is it getting colder in here?" I voiced aloud the next time Gunnar became visible to me.

He paused in his traipsing and turned to look at me. Since I had been the one to ask the question, I found myself forced to meet his eyes again.

"It is colder," he confirmed. "I would guess that we are right underneath the ice rink, and that the heat is turned off at night when no one is here."

"Well, _we're _here," I grumbled, fully aware of how immature I must have sounded, but frankly, I didn't care. It was getting downright chilly in there, and when we finally got out, I had every intention of alerting the proper authorities about the near-freezing conditions of this storeroom. And if my companion was correct, it was bound to only get worse as the night wore on.

This was not cool. Cold, yes, but not cool. Who could've known I'd be needing anything heavier than a T-shirt when I first embarked on this little endeavor? At least Gunnar still had his jacket – being Icelandic, it was probably second nature for him not to go anywhere without an extra layer of clothing.

I shivered involuntarily and furiously rubbed my hands up and down my bare arms to keep them warm. I squeezed my eyes shut for a moment, willing the cold to go away, when suddenly I felt something soft and warm drop down over my shoulders. My eyelids fluttered open, and sure enough, there to my own bemusement was a black sports jacket – _his _jacket.

Gunnar Stahl had just given me his jacket. I hadn't asked for it, hadn't even considered asking. Yet there was no denying it: against all odds, he'd actually elected the "gentlemanly" course of action.

I opened my mouth to thank him, however grudgingly, but he had already moved away, his back to me. So I let it go. The jacket was blessedly warm, though – not so much because it was a heavy material, but because his body heat still lingered on the inside. I had to admit, it was quite nice. I pulled the garment tighter around myself, half expecting it to smell like my brothers' old gym clothes back home, but such was not the case. It actually smelled kind of nice. Not an obnoxious overdose of cologne type of smell…just clean and fresh. It had probably just come out of the laundry, so I could at least thank my lucky stars for that!

Time crawled onward while I sat, and he paced. To be honest, he was making me quite dizzy, and the silence was becoming oppressive.

"So," I ventured at length, "how do you like LA so far?"

That got him to stop, at the very least, but his response was little more than an indifferent shrug. "It's too hot."

"Ah, I see." That wasn't surprising. _Come on, Julie. Keep him talking! Find some common ground._ "Um, what kind of music do you listen to?" I mean, come on, all teenagers like music. Right?

Nevertheless, the question seemed to catch him off guard. My companion studied me closely for a moment, no doubt trying to discern my motives for initiating such random conversation. But he still indulged me by listing a few names, most of which I could never remember, much less pronounce. Icelandic groups, of course.

"I don't think I've heard of any of them," I stammered. Gosh, this was awkward! "Anything a little more universal, maybe?"

"U2," he tried again.

Well, there you go. I suppose it's hard to get much more "universal" than Bono. But no matter what questions I asked, his answers were always minimal, and I was beginning to feel that dragging on the conversation like this was going to be every bit as effective as a stick-figure goalie. (Sorry, that was one of my old coach's favorite sayings.) But suffice to say, carrying on a one-sided discussion had become increasingly difficult, and I was on the verge of forgetting the whole thing.

"Why do you play goalie?"

As you can imagine, his question took me completely by surprise. "I'm sorry?"

"Why did you choose to play goalie?" he repeated, resuming his previous stance of leaning against the wall while facing me. And believe it or not, he seemed genuinely interested in hearing my answer.

"Well," I began, "my older brothers both play hockey, and when they were younger, they'd want me to fill in as goalie so they could practice. I guess you could say I didn't really 'choose' it at all. I just played it often enough that I got pretty good, and I enjoyed it even more when I joined an actual team in Maine."

He paused. "I don't think I could do that."

"Do what?"

"Play goalie. I never understood how you can stay in one place for the entire game; how you can stay behind while your teammates go up and attack the net. I do not think I could."

Did I detect a hint of admiration there? I must be imagining things.

"Well," I reasoned slowly, "you're a natural scorer." Natural everything, come to think of it. He and Sanderson had played some pretty wicked defense together, too. Defense – a goalie's best friend.

But hey, at least we were talking now, and it wasn't terribly tense! He'd practically let his guard down as we moved on to a topic of shared interest. Apparently I should've just stuck with hockey from the start.

"My brother is twenty-one," Gunnar continued. "He plays…I believe you call it 'handball.' It's popular in Iceland, and he is very good. But I wanted to do something different."

I nodded, hoping to encourage him on. Though the Icelander had struggled with a couple of words so far in our time together, his English really wasn't all that bad. He'd been harder to understand earlier, when his temper had been provoked.

And to my continued amazement, he did speak again. He even switched subjects on me. "Is there any chance someone will soon realize you are gone?"

He was still preoccupied with getting out of this hell-hole, and to be honest, I didn't blame him. Perhaps that's what he'd been mulling over the whole time he was pacing.

I opened my mouth, about to say that my roommate should have already noticed, but the words died on my lips in horrid realization.

"My roommate thinks I was going to see our team tutor about something before coming back to the room. She probably fell asleep and didn't worry about my not being there. We'll have to hope she wakes up and sees I'm still missing."

Gunnar muttered under his breath in Icelandic a bit before reverting back to English. "At least _your_ roommate will notice. Unless we're still trapped here at six-thirty tomorrow, Olaf won't even know I'm gone. He'll wake up a little after six and think I've just gone on to practice ahead of him. That happens often."

"Your practice is at six-thirty tomorrow morning?"

"Yah, from six-thirty until nine. And then we have a game at three."

I hate to admit it, but that almost made me feel sorry for him. "Our practice time isn't until one in the afternoon, so at least I'll still be able to get some sleep beforehand. What are you gonna do?"

He sighed and quickly ran a hand through his hair. "I am hoping this room will open back up at six, so I can go straight to practice."

"On no sleep? And after your coach already put you through one grueling routine today?" This guy was seriously nuts! Or unhealthily obsessed, take your pick. "What about your game?"

"I should be able to catch a few hours of sleep in between."

"And I suppose you could down a gallon of coffee to get you through practice, too," I chuckled.

"At home maybe," he differed. "But not here. Your coffee in America is too weak."

I briefly weighed whether or not that was a point worth arguing, until I remembered reading somewhere that coffee in Europe was generally much stronger than we Americans were accustomed to. So I ignored the challenge.

What I could not ignore, unfortunately, was that as we'd talked, the temperature in the room had continued its steady decline. I shivered again, wrapping my arms around my stomach for warmth.

Gunnar went back to walking again when our conversation dwindled, but this time there appeared to be a real purpose to it. He was looking for something, that much was clear. Would it get him angry again if I asked? Now, mind you, it's not that I was scared of him. Far from it. But I had come to realize in the past few minutes that he made a much more agreeable companion when he wasn't in a bad mood. Hmph. He was probably thinking the same thing about me.

"Do you think they keep any food in here?" he asked suddenly, answering my unvoiced question.

I bit my lip and truthfully replied, "I don't know. I didn't see any when I was here before, but I wasn't exactly looking for it, either."

He started rummaging through boxes. "I can take an early practice without sleep, but not without something to eat."

I wished him well in his search. Suffering the wrath of Wolf Stansson on zero sleep and an empty stomach was hardly a fate I could wish upon him after he'd given me his jacket and was now walking around in short sleeves. But on the other hand, I was getting hungry myself, and if he found anything, I hoped there would be enough to share.

The familiar wrinkling of a food wrapper captured my attention. "Find something?"

Gunnar walked back over to me, looking not nearly as pleased as I'd thought he might. He held up a food bar of some kind in each hand for inspection before tossing one over to me. I hadn't expected it, but naturally "The Cat" caught it.

I quickly inspected the wrapper, and my appetite vanished. It was a protein bar – a really, really old protein bar that I knew could not possibly have been any good even on the day it was brand new. I turned it over in my hands, in search of an expiration date.

"April 12, 1992? These things expired over two years ago!" I chucked it back at him without warning and was pleasantly surprised when he caught it easily. "So thanks, but I think I'll pass. I can starve until breakfast."

"You're lucky." He opened one, and my wonder grew.

"Wait a second, you're not actually going to _eat_ that, are you?"

"I won't survive tomorrow without it." But when he peeled back the wrapper and caught a glimpse of exactly what he'd be eating, I could've sworn he looked almost fearful. The "protein bar" looked every bit as appetizing as a block of wood, and probably tasted about the same.

He raised the bar to his lips, and I literally braced myself, praying that he wouldn't keel over dead or become violently ill from food poisoning. He forced down one bite, and at that point, I think I really did feel sorry for him. He nearly gagged, his expression perfectly reminiscent of something you would see in any comedy film.

"Good?" I prompted, in response to which he simply glared at me. I couldn't blame him. That bar had to be one of the most disgusting "edible" things I'd ever seen in my life! Yet slowly but surely, Gunnar ate the entire thing. The look on his face as he choked it down was almost enough to make me nauseous.

"You're not gonna be sick now, are you?" I asked when he had finished.

"No." He swallowed thickly. "But I think I will look for some water now."

"Good idea," I chuckled, "and while you're at it, could you keep your eyes open for a blanket? It's like a refrigerator in here."

He didn't reply, only went about his search, and I glanced down at my watch. Two a.m. Boy, that was just great. It was freezing cold, there appeared little chance of being "rescued" before morning, and I was exhausted. If it hadn't been so darn cold, I would gladly have used Gunnar's jacket as a pillow. And I could only imagine how he felt. At least _our_ coach was over his evil dictator phase by now.

I closed my eyes, briefly debating the wisdom of falling asleep, when my Icelandic prison-mate unexpectedly returned and dropped something down over top of me without ceremony.

"Here," he announced, sounding rather proud of his discovery. "It's no blanket, but it can't hurt."

It was a plastic tarp – the kind you cover your car with to keep frost from building on it. But if it works for cars…

I wrapped myself up in the thing as best I could, finding to my chagrin that it was already icy cold itself. Definitely not a blanket! I shivered violently, the movement visible despite my best efforts to conceal it.

"You should move around a bit," Gunnar suggested, his keen eyes catching my shudder. "It might help keep you warmer."

Ah, so he hadn't just been restless this whole time. He'd actually been trying to keep warm, and still was now.

"How cold do you think it is?" I'm not sure why I asked him that. Being from Iceland, I guess I just assumed he was an expert.

He stopped pacing but kept rubbing his hands together for warmth, almost subconsciously, and the extremities of his face were gradually turning red. I'm sure the same could be said of my nose and ears.

"I think it is above freezing, but not by much. There was frost on that tarp when I found it."

I shivered again. No wonder this darn thing was so cold! But as he spoke, Gunnar sounded genuinely worried, much more so than he had before when I'd first mentioned the dropping temperatures; and it was his worry that concerned me. He was from _Iceland_, for crying out loud!

"So, what about you?" I questioned hesitantly. "You can't be any warmer than I am."

"I'll be fine." He drew a deep breath followed by a long sigh, and we both watched in disbelief when a small misty cloud from his breath became visible in the air.

"Fine?" I echoed, incredulous. "Look, Gunnar, you may be from Iceland, but that doesn't exactly mean you're made of whale blubber." Now it was my turn to sigh, the exhalation likewise visible. "I can't believe there isn't a heater or anything like that in here."

"Body heat is as good as any." Said only after a moment's pause, the words were spoken as a statement but clearly intended as a question.

Body heat. Hmm, not very many interpretations to that, are there? It was ridiculous, an utterly absurd suggestion. There was no way I could agree to that! Was there?

I looked back up to study his face. He hadn't reiterated the request, only continued to watch me, gauging my reaction with those cold blue eyes. My own eyes met his and narrowed. There had been no lewd insinuation in his voice, at least that I could tell. But there _was_ something almost akin to pleading in his eyes – shameless, yet still innocent. Was it possible he was just that cold? I probably was, if only I'd let myself admit it.

So I nodded. Didn't say anything – but nodded.

He came over and sat down close beside me without a word, and once again, I had to fight back those hateful hormones that unleashed a swarm of butterflies into my stomach. Not only was Gunnar heavenly warm, he was…(oh, gosh, how can I say this?)…solid. You see, the tricky thing about hockey players is that when you only see them in full gear, it's virtually impossible to tell what kind of build they have. All the pads make them look exactly alike! If it wasn't for the braid sticking out the back of her head, you'd never even be able to tell that Connie was a girl when she played.

Now, considering what I knew of him already, I really shouldn't have been surprised. No doubt Stansson required all of his players to be in tip-top shape, keeping the "whale blubber," as I'd called it, to a minimum.

We rearranged the tarp over ourselves, and it actually seemed to do some good now that there was another body under it with me. At that point, I have to admit, I was honestly glad to have him there. Shows you just how desperate I was, huh?

I felt him relax a little next to me as he likewise took in our shared warmth. Our breathing formed little clouds together; it was rather mesmerizing, especially since I didn't particularly care to look over and catch his eye at the moment. But oh, he was _warm_!

Against my better judgment – and I needn't add, my conscience – I found myself inching closer to him so that our legs and shoulders touched. If it made him uncomfortable, he didn't say anything. And if _I_ was uncomfortable when I felt his arm reaching across my shoulders, I didn't say anything, either. It was simply too wonderful being warm. And sleepy.

My head slumped to lean against his shoulder just as I felt the weight of his head land gently on top of mine. Good Lord, how were we ever going to play against each other again after a night like this? My last thought as I fell asleep was how incredibly wrong this would look if anyone were actually to discover us like we'd been hoping for just a few moments earlier.

**Author's End Note: **Hmm, I think it's pretty safe to say that I'm sucker for the fluff-stuff. But gosh, that was fun! And no, it's not over yet. There's one more segment still to come, with the entrance of our favorite Bash Brother. See you then!


	3. Chapter 3: Rescue

**Summary:** What happens when Julie Gaffney and Gunnar Stahl are accidentally locked together in a cold room overnight, only to be "rescued" by Dean Portman? The possibilities are endless. Julie's POV. Enjoy!

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing, and no money is made. I think that just about covers it.

**Author's Note:** Hi again, and welcome to the conclusion of Part 1. Special thanks to **galindapopular **and **sToriTyme **for sticking with me and reviewing the last chapter - you guys have been such an encouragement! And now I sincerely hope this final segment lives up to your high expectations. Enjoy!

**Sympathy for the Icelanders: Part I**

**Frozen Hell - Rescue**

I must be a heavy sleeper. Either that or I was just really, really tired. I didn't hear the door opening, nor the sound of my own name being called.. I didn't stir until Gunnar shifted beside me, jostling my drowsy head back to consciousness.

Then, I heard it.

"What the - ?!"

_Portman?_ Oh Lord, please, no! Of all the people in Los Angeles who could have walked in on us, why did it have to be him? I would almost rather it had been one of Gunnar's Icelandic teammates. At least none of them had an obvious crush on me. Or, so I hoped.

Gunnar was already on his feet, having recovered his senses far more quickly than I did, and he immediately found himself face-to-face with an infuriated Dean Portman. I feared the worst, and rightfully so; for a full-fledged fight seemed imminent when Portman, with the element of surprise on his side, literally grabbed his Scandinavian rival by the front of his shirt and roughly shoved him against the wall, pinning him there.

I leapt up, nearly panicking. "Wait, stop! Portman, what are you doing?"

He, in turn, looked affronted. "Me? What about him? What's _he_ doing? And what the heck were _you_ doing?"

Oh, brother, this was going to be difficult to explain. I took a long, deep breath to calm myself before assuring him, "This isn't what it looks like, Portman, I promise. Now will you please let him go so I can tell you what happened?"

"Let him go?" the elder Bash Brother echoed in disbelief. "Are you kidding? I'm gonna pound his sorry Iceland carcass to a pulp before anything else happens here."

That got a spark of life back in Gunnar's weary eyes. Don't ask me how, but I could tell he was still extremely tired. The coming day would certainly not be an enjoyable one for him.

But in the meantime, he managed to successfully push Portman away from him, and before they could come back together to renew the brawl, I hastily inserted myself between them, fully aware that I was doing so at my own bodily risk.

Indeed, I could feel them both pressing in against me at once in an attempt to lay hold of each others' throats, and I was forced to raise a hand on either side simply to protect myself and avoid being squashed in the melee.

"Now just hold on a minute, both of you!" I exclaimed, more concerned for my personal well-being than for keeping the peace. "Look, I know this isn't exactly an ideal situation here, but if you two end up killing each other, I'm the one who'll be found here in the morning with two dead bodies."

"Then why don't you just leave, sweetheart?" Portman suggested, as though it were the easiest thing in the world. He and Gunnar hadn't stopped glaring at each other over my head; sometimes I really hate being on the short side. "You don't have to stick around for this."

"Um, yes, actually I do, and that's what I've been trying to tell you all along. Portman, this door can't be opened from the inside overnight, so we have to wait until everything opens back up again in the morning."

"What?!"

My colleague abruptly tore himself away from the tense confrontation, only to take his own turn at tugging futilely on the unrelenting door. No small stream of cursing and obscenities followed, to which I only shook my head.

But what time was it now, anyway? I dared a glance down at my watch. Five forty-nine. Oh, that was just great! If Gunnar's six o'clock theory was correct, I had exactly eleven minutes to keep World War III from breaking out in here.

At least now I understood why Gunnar had been so upset with me when I'd first arrived and failed to keep the door open. The novelty of being locked in a cold storeroom wore off pretty darn quickly, especially when you were trapped with your arch nemesis' star player. So why was I tempted to apologize to said star player for my own teammate's raucous behavior?

Thankfully, Portman spared me the trouble by rejoining us. He had finished with the door, and I prayed all his destructive energies had been spent there, with little chance of resurfacing against someone who frankly did not deserve them. At least not on this particular evening.

Now experiencing the same phase of denial that I had, Dean turned his back on Gunnar and addressed me. "At least I found you."

"What do mean?" I asked, not comprehending. "Were you looking for me?"

"Well, duh, of course we were looking for you! Why else do you think I'd be here at this ungodly hour in the morning?"

"Well, what happened?"

"Connie woke up, and you were missing – that's what happened. Coach came around into all the rooms asking if anyone knew where you were, and then Banks remembered that you were going to look for some medical tape or something for him."

I was suddenly indignant. "Yeah, whatever happened with that? Didn't he notice like six hours ago that I never came back with any?"

"Uh, no, because Fulton actually found him some right after you left; but he did remember where you'd gone, so I said I'd come look for you."

"And congratulations: you found her." That, as you might have guessed, was Gunnar. The guy was forcing his way back into the conversation and into the forefront of Portman's mind. Needless to say, I was nervous again. So you can imagine my blended surprise and relief when the latter continued to address me rather than completely lose his temper.

"Ya know, Jules, you still haven't explained how you ended up being stuck in here with this loser. If he dragged you in here or anything like that, then he'd better know he's already dead where he stands."

"No, no, no," I explained hastily, feeling my cheeks warm a bit at the insinuation. "He was already locked in here when I came. Believe me, I would never choose to be trapped overnight somewhere with Gunnar Stahl."

"Then why were you sleeping with him?"

I winced at the choice of words, and by that point, I knew I was blushing brighter than Rudolph's nose.

"Next to him, Portman – _next_ to him! And that was just because it's freezing in here, in case you hadn't noticed."

Dean nodded but hardly looked convinced. "Yeah, I noticed. And I'm sure that's the only reason you're wearing his jacket, too, huh?"

"Yes, it is," I sighed. "Don't worry, I'm not switching sides or anything."

Suddenly curious, I looked over to see how Gunnar himself had been weathering our incredibly awkward discussion, but I froze as soon as my head was turned. He was gone – simply vanished right from under my nose while Portman and I were talking.

"Gunnar?" I called tentatively, hoping I didn't sound too worried. That's all it would take to reawaken my teammate's suspicions, as well as his fierce jealousy. It's fairly common knowledge throughout the team that Portman's had a thing for me every since our first week of training. For my own part, though, I'm still not entirely sure what to make of the whole situation.

"Gunnar!" I tried again, louder this time, but Portman just waved it off.

"Aw, let him hide. I knew he'd be too chicken to take me on without his sidekick, Sanderson. Man, I can't wait to get my hands on that guy when we play them in the championship!"

"But where could he have gone?" I wondered, still unsettled by his disappearance.

Then, like a ton of bricks, it hit me. I checked my watch again and felt like a hopeless simpleton. Five minutes after six. He must have slipped silently out the door while my new prison buddy and I rambled on and on about nothing even remotely relevant.

Still feeling like the biggest idiot to ever walk the planet, I stalked past Portman without a word and tried the door. It opened easily. So six o'clock must have been the magic time, after all.

Our walk together back to the dorms consisted mainly of Portman lecturing my ear off about the inherent nature of guys and how I really needed to be more careful around them, etc. Personally, I still think he was just jealous. I can't see him as much of the lecturing type otherwise.

But at length, he dropped me off at my room, and upon entering, I was immediately crushed in Connie's ecstatic embrace.

"Julie! Oh, Julie, I'm glad you're all right; I was so worried about you!"

"It's okay, Con, I'm fine," I assured her while struggling to retain enough air in my lungs for breathing. "I just wish you could've noticed I was gone a little sooner."

"I know, I know," my roommate gushed. "And I'm sorry, I really am! But where on earth were you all this time?"

"It's…kind of a long story."

She finally released me from her vice-like grip. "Well, never mind that, I still want to hear all about…Julie Marie Gaffney, what is _that_?"

For a second, I was confused; then, suddenly, I wanted nothing more than to crawl into a black hole somewhere and die.

I was still wearing Gunnar Stahl's jacket.

**Author's End Note: **Well, whaddya think? Hopefully it didn't disappoint. But since this is Part 1, after all, you can most certainly expect a Part 2 to our Sympathy for the Icelanders series - "Heads Above" coming soon to a fanfiction site near you. I hope that's good news, lol. So keep your eyes open; I've still got a bit of work to do on that one, but I promise it will be done. Thanks for reading, and we'll see you then!


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